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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23348797">A Soothing Balm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun'>honeybun</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabou'>Sabou</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Commune Naufragium [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Pilgrimage (2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fussing, Kissing, M/M, Requited Love, Tenderness, Unresolved Romantic Tension, reluctant diarmuid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:28:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23348797</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This was created as part of a series of other short stories. </p><p>Diarmuid is used to gentle touches from his friend, but he realises it's more than that, he turns away. </p><p>This is about reciprocal actions, dreams become real, a small carved bear and a bruised cheek.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brother Diarmuid/The Mute</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Commune Naufragium [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670629</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Soothing Balm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had been building in Diarmuid, all over Summer, and now through Autumn. The things which he wouldn’t have thought too much of before now plagued his mind. The moments him and his friend shared danced around him like whispered dreams whenever he tried to rest.</p><p>Every moment, every touch they now shared imprinted itself on Diarmuid’s mind and heart. The box David made for him was not just a place for him to store secret treasured belongings, but now to keep the secrets between them both. Diarmuid’s late night visits where David would sometimes hand him something warm to drink - berries and herbs from his wanderings during the day, flavouring wine. Diarmuid would sit on David’s low pallet bed, box on his knee and carefully plucking through his treasures again. His friend would sit in silence watching him from the table and chair opposite.</p><p>Sometimes Diarmuid would talk, it seemed less like he needed to now, almost like they’d found a way to communicate without words but through the air, with minute movements of their shoulders, twitches of fingers. Diarmuid could feel drunk on it the more and more time he spent with David in solitude, it felt like a pail of cold water had been tipped on him as soon as he left, so he let things drag on longer and longer, even falling asleep a little once or twice.</p><p>He’d awoken to those warm broad hands on his shoulders, not waking with haste, more reluctantly rousing him. He’d looked into David’s deep brown eyes and asked, ‘Would you like it if I stayed?’</p><p>Before the words had fully left his lips he’d known he shouldn’t have let them, a soft sigh left David’s lips and Diarmuid felt like he was not being looked at as some silly young thing, but assessed in a way he never had before. It made his cheeks flush and his heart beat in the pit of his stomach. He looked away from David and bit into his lip, fingers tangling in his robe.</p><p>‘I should go,’ as always, his head sinks and his shoulders feel heavier. He turns to put aside the little wooden box and his cup, his friend has taken a step back and looks towards the door, his shoulders tense, a firm line.</p><p>As Diarmuid opens up the door his friend crowds behind him, and again, there is that same feeling at the pit of his stomach as he looks up in David’s eyes. The much larger man towers over him and leans in as the door stays open. While Diarmuid is transfixed, every fibre of him waiting with anticipation and what he doesn’t realise is longing, David reaches out and strokes his cheek. It could leave scorch marks, for that’s certainly how it feels for Diarmuid. The touch is sweet, gentle, but Diarmuid feels slightly teasing, almost like he’s saying, ‘Well, why don’t you?’ Diarmuid doesn’t know how to cope with that, and so turns on his heels and flees to the safety and lonely solitude of the monastery.</p><p>He tosses and turns restlessly all night, totting up the times David has touched him, and then a new category for times David has touched him like <em>that</em>. It isn’t until the sun is peeking over the horizon that Diarmuid finds solace in sleep, even then dreaming of the moment at the door, his hand is stuck for some reason on the door jam and he cannot escape, his other hand is trailing up his friend’s broad chest without him meaning to - without him aware of it - and he is simultaneously fearful and excited. The concoction of emotions swirling in his belly and pushing out through his throat. He does not remember the rest of the dream, apart from that it is warm and good and dark.</p><p>It is difficult to see David after that then. Whenever he does his body is no longer his to control, his cheeks go russet and his hands feel clammy, his knees cave in like a newborn colt and his breath comes short and uneasy. He ducks his head down and walks quickly whenever he sees his friend working in the fields, he does not let his eyes linger on him working. Even now in Autumn they get warm days, and at times like those David would take off his shirt and lay it against a cool rock to put back on again once he was finished. Diarmuid knows there is a dark thicket of hair there, tangled and thick like The Mute’s hair, like his beard. He hadn’t grown hair like that himself, even after trying for a few long months to summon even stubble, he’d failed and settled into his nature, peach fuzz and cheeks still filled out with babyish fat. He admired it on David though, as he admired everything about him.</p><p>At this time of year they are shoring up the dry stone walls. The year before Diarmuid had often gone to his friend in the evening and rubbed soothing balms on the damaged skin of his palms. Every evening he thinks of this, but does not go.</p><p>A mere week after the strange occurrence in David’s quarters - which Diarmuid blames entirely on himself - he finally feels recovered enough (and missing his friend terribly enough) to risk the visit. He stores a pot of his favourite balm amongst his robes and takes his courage with him, head high and feet sure (faltering though, as they reach the doorway of David’s small abode).</p><p>He knocks quietly, and then, exasperated with himself, for how should David hear such a pitiful sound, he knocks again, louder, and typically does so just as the great wooden door swings open. He must look very eager, he thinks, scolding himself for his own pitiful foolishness as always, cheeks red again, as David admits him.</p><p>He twiddles with his hands and straightens out his robes.</p><p>‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen you recently, Brother Ciaran made sure I was busy this week-’ the lie falls flat as soon as David looks at him, his unwavering stare as ever seeing directly through Diarmuid. He hadn’t lied to David before, and the shame of it boils in his stomach and twists it around like a hen in the grip of a fox.</p><p>Nevertheless, David offers him a chair. Generously getting up to see if he has anything for Diarmuid, a sweet biscuit, some cheese wrapped in cloth. Diarmuid takes it all helplessly and his hands feel weak at his kindness, his head hurts from the strain of his worry, how much he wishes to tell David he wanted to see him, but this was for their own good, really, and that he couldn’t see him, he couldn’t.</p><p>David’s eyes rest on Diarmuid, and Diarmuid is quite sure he knows it all. He had missed this especially, how David almost instinctively knew what he was thinking and feeling.</p><p>‘I’m sorry,’ Diarmuid doesn’t lie now, head bowed down and voice quiet. David’s hand comes to rest on his knee and squeezes. All is forgiven then.</p><p>Diarmuid smiles, and sees David’s face soften, the tension around his eyes relax and disappear. Diarmuid rummages around in his pocket and brings out the small jar of balm.</p><p>‘For your hands, David-’ he comments, reaching for them already and kneading them in his own. If he doesn’t think too much about it then it’s fine, if he doesn’t let himself pay attention to the lump in his throat and the quiver in his gut then it’s almost like things are normal.</p><p>He rubs the thick balm in and massages the meat of his palm, pushing in between his fingers, he lets his eyes stray a little when David sighs and sits back in his chair, eyes closed and legs spread wide, other hand hanging down between them. Diarmuid continues to distract himself from that.</p><p>‘Other one, please,’ barely a word slips past his lips and David is passing him his left hand. Diarmuid huffs a nervous laugh and David’s mouth twitches into a smile as his head rolls back happily.</p><p>When, alas, it comes to an end, Diarmuid tries to eek it out for longer by getting a bowl of warm water to wash and dry David’s hands himself. It’s justified to him, for his friend takes care of him and his fellow brothers by keeping the land and their animals well, what is such a service to him but a thank you?</p><p>David animates slowly, a sigh from his lips and shuffling of his feet, his eyes opening last of all as he rolls his shoulders. The thought pops into Diarmuid’s head and he wonders whether this is what his friend looks like when he wakes up, but that is knowledge not for him, he sternly tells himself.</p><p>Before Diarmuid can escape, David is pressing something into his hands, something else smooth and wooden, something small. When he lets himself look, in his hand is an intricate little bear, on all fours, nose and eyes and ears all carefully carved out in the wood. Diarmuid wants to keep it in his hands forever, turn it over and over again until it’s his and moulded by his own hands just as much as with David’s.</p><p>‘I don’t deserve it,’ to his shame, his voice doesn’t sound steady, it hitches with a breath and his vision blurs a little. He’s never gotten out of the habit of crying, no matter how hard he tries, when he's overwhelmed or upset or nervous or any kind of emotion just a tad too much a lump forms in his throat and he can’t breath out of his nose anymore.</p><p>The warmth beside him now must be David, he can’t see him but he can feel him, all along his side, and now a hand on his cheek again. He won’t look, he can’t do it again. He squeezes his eyes shut and hot tears swell down his cheek, ‘Don’t look-’</p><p>A warm and wet sensation presses against his cheek, then something slightly ticklish, rough and tangled. Diarmuid hears and knows of nothing outside of this for some moments, his lungs take breath in and out like waves quietly washing up the shore, like he’s being cleansed. He feels as David’s large and misshapen nose rubs gently against the peach fuzz of his skin. It is just like the dream, but better. The warmth, and then, as David turns him towards his chest, the darkness. David’s hands on his back press against him firmly, and Diarmuid strangely feels as if he could sleep now, safe and perfectly cared for. It’s more than good, dreams don’t even account for it.</p><p>Diarmuid doesn’t feel like he’s walking, doesn’t quite feel like he’s even in his own body as he walks the halls back to his dormitory. A scorch mark on one cheek from David stroking him there again as he’d left, listless and without words to speak, the other with what Diarmuid imagines as a bruise, purple and large and rippling out the encompass his entire cheek, scratches like red lace where his friend’s beard had tickled him. They don’t speak as Diarmuid goes, and David has to carefully pry the small wooden bear from Diarmuid’s hands before he leaves with it.</p><p>Sleep comes easily to him that night, he isn’t sure why, perhaps it’s because instead of being left swinging to and fro, he’s been left with a resolution, good or not, sinful or not. He does not dream.</p>
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